


September 10th 1943

by jungle_ride



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - World War II, Angst, Epistolary, F/M, Love Letters, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-05-04 06:08:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5323430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jungle_ride/pseuds/jungle_ride
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU! World War Two was been raging for four years and Merlin is overseas fighting as part of a tank unit when he receives  a letter from Morgana, the woman he left behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	September 10th 1943

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eurydice72](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eurydice72/gifts).



> So I saw WW2 love letters, Merlin/Morgana and knew I had to write something based on that prompt for this couple. Morgana’s letter just sort of sprang into my mind one night and so I ran with it and built around it. I hope you like what I came up with. Happy Holidays xx.

Merlin plunges a cloth into a bucket of cold water, pulling it out he squeezes the excess water out and starts scrubbing at the blood splattered wall of the tank. Oddly enough the blood was not from a wound caused by the bullets of the enemy, though they’d given it their best go. Instead Gwaine, the tanks assistant driver/bow gunner, had been celebrating their latest ‘victory’ and smashed his head against one of the metal bolts as he was saluting to ‘the best job I ever had’, he may have been pumped up on adrenaline and alcohol at the time. The cut above his eye was nothing to write home about, but it had produced a lot of blood all things considered. Fortunately Merlin had managed to begin cleaning before it had dried, so it comes away easily enough. It’s not the first time blood has covered Excalibur as they’ve nicknamed their tank, and Merlin knows it won’t be the last either. 

Excalibur and her crew are extremely fortunate, no one else in their division or any Merlin has heard of, has managed to stay together the way they have. Three years deep and not one fatal casualty to speak of, though God knows they’ve come close. Despite the odds their crew still consists of Leon: driver, Gwaine: assistant driver/bow gunner, Percival: loader, Merlin: gunner and Arthur held them all together as staff sergeant. 

Merlin had known Arthur before the war, having grown up with him and enlisted with him back in 1939. They’d met Gwaine, Percival and Leon during their training and the five men had been together ever since. Gwaine, Percival and Leon believed it was just pure luck and a little bit of fate that they were chosen to run the tank together, Merlin however knows differently. It’s the only time throughout this whole ordeal that Arthur has used his father’s connections to influence any decision. 

“Merlin.” Percival calls, his head and shoulders popping into view via the turret hatch. 

“What is it Perce? Gwaine’s not gone and done more damage to himself has he?” Merlin asks as he continues with his work. 

“Nah the buggers sleeping it off.” Percival laughs. “He’s going to have a quite the hangover later.”

“Serves him right.” Merlin says, though it’s obvious he doesn’t mean it. “What was it that you wanted then?” Merlin asks as he wipes away the last trails of blood. 

“Got a letter for you.” Percival says, waving a white envelope. Merlin turns and recognizes the cursive writing immediately. His heart leaps, automatically quicken as he imagines what might be inside. Instinct makes him want to rip the letter from Percival hands but he pauses long enough to remember the filth covering hands. 

“Thanks Perce, I’ll be out in a second.” Merlin says. 

“Right oh.” Percival nods, and leaves him to it. It takes Merlin only a few more minutes to finish up inside the tank. Once outside, he finds some clean water to wash his hands before he goes to find Percival. Percival hands him the letter with a smile and a knowing glance. Retreating back to Excalibur, Merlin takes a pew ontop, one arm slung over the 75 mm gun. His heart is a hummingbird inside his chest as he runs his fingers over the envelope. It’s his imagination of course, but he swears he can smell the faint scent of a familiar perfume as he breaks open the seal.

\-------

_September 10th 1943_

_Dearest Merlin,_

_How are you? Even now as I pen those words I cannot help but laugh at my own foolishness. It is a senseless and imprudent query, one I am already chastising myself for. I would not blame you if you tossed aside this letter without a second glance. I can only hope you will forgive my absurdity, for I cannot explain to you why I am inquiring about such a subject. It is a mystery, even to me. I already know the answer. However I might wish it otherwise._

_I desperately want to believe, however fruitless, that you have remained untouched by this war. Undoubtedly a fools dream, for I see the effects of this war in the eyes of the men that have returned, either to hospital beds, or those on leave. The latter drown themselves in women and booze, a desperate attempt to shed their soldier’s skin and reconnect to a humanity of a time that no longer exists. Whilst those with broken limbs and battered bodies seem to fade into the shadows of their own minds, mere shells of the people they were before, their souls lost in some foreign land. I pray each night that you are spared from this fate._

_I want you to remain as wide eyed and buoyant as you were when our lips first met back in 1939? Is it senseless of me to think you ever could? Perhaps, but if anyone could navigate themselves safety through this endless nightmare, it is you._

_I hope this letter arrives safely. It has such a precarious journey to make. I’ve often thought burning my words would be a more definite way of getting them to you. The passing years have taught me that this world seems only to understand fire and blood. The lack of your correspondence only furthers my increasing doubts. I understand, it must be growing increasingly difficult due to the circumstances of your current predicament, but I often wonder if you, like me, are finding it increasingly harder to put pen to paper. After all what is there left to say that we haven’t already? How many times can one eloquently describe the crippling longingness one feels when separated from their heart, before it all starts to sound melodramatic? How can I hope to find the right words in the English langue to express such sentiments, Merlin? I miss you sounds trivial. I love you, too juvenile. This war has taken so much from us already, our innocence, our lives, now even our mother tongue._

_Do you feel this weight as well? Is that why your letters are so few? Or is it simply down to the war torn miles between us? I must confess that the lack of them makes my heart lurch, the darkest thoughts of telegrams or uniformed men at my door fill the space their absence leaves. I remember when you first left for training; doesn’t that seem a hundred lifetimes ago. We would write every week and each letter was pages long, all of them talking of nonsense and love. Do you remember? We would talk of how you would soon be home. How the war would not last long. Oh how little we knew. I still have them all. The stack of them sits by my bedside table, and I often spend hours tracing your words. We were so young, so naïve._

_I fear the girl I once was has long since faded from existence. I wonder if you would even recognise me now, for I’m much changed. I’m afraid I’ve not weathered this storm well. Unlike Gwen; with her kind eyes and loving heart, she is so pure. Even with the bombs, blood, grief and helplessness she has somehow remained steadfast in her character. Nursing is the perfect place for her; she is the warmth of the ward. The soldiers all adore her and it is a wondrous sight watching her care so tenderly for them. Gwen brings them all such comfort, reaching a hand into the darkness and drawing them back into the light. I find myself in constant awe of her strength._

_As for me, I am lost. There is a darkness that has bloomed inside, one I cannot seem to escape though I am trying. I am trying. Still I cannot elude the rage of my thoughts, so full of hate and death. I dream of ripping throats out with my teeth. The phantom taste of blood is in my mouth, its slick wetness covering my hands in the morning when I wake. It scares me to say, that those dreams are the nights I sleep most peacefully. A crippling rage boils within me, it often spills out from within and I find myself attacking anyone around me whether they warrant it or not._

_Nursing, a job that was once fulfilling, has become a cage that only furthers my travels into darkness. I’m unable to ease the soldiers suffering for I only remind them of the poisonous fury they left behind. I can take no more of their haunted eyes. Therefore I’ve made the decision to leave my position; this will be my last week in service. Please do not fret. It is a choice of my own volition and one that I am resolute about. However I shall not become the useless flower, Uther would make me and as for next week I shall be joining the Woman’s Auxiliary Fire Service. Does that surprise you? Gwen was most shocked, she assumed I would have chosen the factories and for a time I did. The forging of bullets and shells seems a more suited place for my current state of mind; though I know you would advise me otherwise, not wanting me to feed the flames and despite my stubbornness I am heeding to the words of guidance I know you would offer._

_Therefore I shall be adorning the uniform of those ‘heroes with grimy faces' as Churchill calls them. In perspective it seems a well suited fit, as I must admit Merlin that I have spent nearly every night since 1940 walking the streets when the sirens sound. Please do not get cross with me. I am all too aware of the dangers of such a pastime, but I have found through the years, that this is the only time a moment of cease-fire occurs within. For when the piercing sound fills the air and the earth shakes below my feet as fires sprout out in the distance, I find myself able to cross the distance between us; past the bombed wreckage of London, the ocean and warn torn front lines and for the briefest of moments I can remember clearly the taste of your lips and the touch of your hand. I hear the sound of your voice; see the shine of your eyes and the brightness of your smile. I can feel your body pressed against mine and I remember what it was like before it all was blown away into madness, and I begin to believe that maybe, somehow we can find our way to something safe again._

_I am all too aware of how odd that must sound but if anyone can understand the sentiment, or decipher the enigma of my foolish self, it is you. For although I may not be the same snip of a woman you left a lifetime ago, the mess of a human I have become is still the one that fits into your curves and cracks. Our scars are made for the other. We have and always will see the best and worst of one each other and we will always choose both._

_Yours forever._

_Morgana_

\------

Merlin finishes reading the letter and takes out a cigarette, lighting it with one of the matches he finds buried in his pocket. He takes several drags, releasing smoke on shaky breathes before re-reading Morgana’s words till he can recite it from memory. Even when he can do that Merlin is still unsure of the feelings the letter has evoked. This is perhaps the most forward Morgana has ever been about the effect the war is having on her, about her fears. They’ve always strayed from such topics, choosing instead to daydream about what they would do when he returned or reminisce of times gone by. Anything regarding the here and now had always been tainted with a rose coloured brush; the truth always hidden under layers of sub-context. 

Merlin is both pleased that Morgana has chosen to be open with him but terrified as well. He knows all too well the difficultly Morgana finds in bearing her soul to anyone, preferring the castle walls she has built for herself. The fact she has let him in, means everything. In his darkest moments Merlin has always been afraid the war would tear them too far apart for them to ever find their way back to each other again. He’s thankful that although the it is keeping them apart, they are still together in more ways than they are not. 

Rolling up the sleeve of his jacket Merlin reveals the black inked tattoo he has on the inside of his right forearm and slowly traces the curves and lines that make up Morgana’s name. He had gotten the tattoo when he’d been on leave on the cusp on 1940. It had been a youthful impulse, a joke Morgana had made when she’d seen his other tattoo; a shield with a dragon in the middle on his left shoulder. They all had one, Arthur, Leon, Percival, Gwaine and himself. Why they had chosen a dragon shield he does not know, they had all been blind drunk at the time; Merlin is still convinced Arthur had something to do with it though he claims ignorance. But when they had all awoken and looked at their newly inked matching shields it had seemed right. 

Morgana had teased him, saying “You get a tattoo in honour of my egotistical brother and a bunch of men you barely know before you get one for me.” The next day Merlin and come home to her, branded with her name.  
Morgana had looked at him in complete shock and awe, her tentative smile sending shivers up his spine. “I can’t believe you did this” she had said, running a fascinated finger over his skin. “We’ve only been us for, not even a year and for most of that time you’ve been away.” 

“Felt right” he had told her and it had. Over the years that particular tattoo has become an anchor for him; helping to draw him out of nightmares that would swallow him whole otherwise. Not that he has gotten out unscathed. Merlin knows he is a changed man, how could he not be, when he’s seen what he’s seen and done the things he’s done. The wide eyed boy Morgana spoke about is unable to breathe in this suffocating smoke, but he keeps trying anyway. He’s tired though, so very tired of reaping the seeds this war has brought, but there is nothing to be done about it. He must keep trudging along with his head buckled down. Merlin cannot afford the luxury of sitting around dwelling on how he has been changed and broken open, or on anything else to a large degree. His thought process has to be a precise mantra. Fight, survive, fight. To do otherwise would be foolish, it’s how men get killed out here. This is why his letters have been growing fewer, not out of want but out of a necessity, a way to keep himself alive so he can keep telegrams and unformed men away from her door. 

Still now Morgana has sent a letter like this he cannot simply ignore it. He can’t wait months to reply, or reply as he might have done before. That wouldn’t be fair to her. They can’t pretend anymore, she’s ripped away the façade in one fail swoop. He can’t help but smile, it is so very like her. Sighing he fetches a pencil and the best piece of paper he can find and sits down to write.


End file.
